


it doesn't go away (when you're trying not to stay)

by seularen



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Captain America Trading Cards, Gen, SHIELD Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seularen/pseuds/seularen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Distance was the first defense of an assassin: never stay long enough to see the blood turn brown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it doesn't go away (when you're trying not to stay)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://archergoddess.tumblr.com/post/24594182437/i-seriously-need-fic-or-art-or-something-where) on tumblr.

Coulson drove. Natasha watched the road's yellow lines until her eyes unfocused. The shimmer radiating off the concrete coaxed out steadying breaths; after the first dozen miles, she finally uncrossed her arms and leaned her head back. Usually Clint filled the car with bad jokes and smarmy comments until the two in front relaxed enough to return his banter. Without the archer, the road from Phoenix to Pasadena stretched unendingly in front of them. It was a testament to their closeness that Natasha considered attempting small talk. In the end, she held her tongue and stuck to her training; let the other break first, always. 

But this was Coulson, and she hadn't seen him yield yet. The mission had gone right to hell, evidenced by the archer's absence, Natasha's stonier-than-usual silence, and Coulson's unbuttoned shirt. _Now would be the time to put those professional development skills to work_ , she thought with a small self-deprecating quirk of her lips. It was the olive branch Coulson had been waiting for.

"Is that a smile, Agent Romanov?"

"Is that a bullet wound, Agent Coulson?"

Twin smirks graced their faces as they stared out their respective windows. After a moment she looked over at him, taking in his disarray and bloodstains; nothing serious-- before he'd even unlocked the car she had demanded he remove his shirt for examination--but his general state was more ruffled than he typically allowed. Her thoughts led her to ponder the expediency of the day's almost-failed mission and the partner they were putting distance between even now. 

"Clint will probably beat us back," Coulson reassured her, redoubling Natasha's suspicions that he'd somehow picked up on tells she hadn't been aware she'd had. _Yблюдок_ , she thought grudgingly, settling back into her seat. 

"Have you found the 1942 card yet?" she rallied. The seeming non sequitur earned another twitch of emotion. 

"There was a promising auction on ebay," Coulson provided readily enough, happy for an excuse to talk about his collection even if it meant acceding her a point in their game of _who's the most lifeless_ (another one of Clint's flattering turns of phrase). "But I was outbid when we had to fly to Rocas Atoll." 

"Unfortunate," she said. "That's the last one you need?" She already knew the answer, but Coulson's ignorable monologue filled the car pleasantly.

"Hmm," he agreed. "For the first editions, anyway." A pause. She waited. "My dad gave me his set, but it wasn't complete. They're in great condition. He was always careful with them." They passed an abandoned gas station. "It's more than age. The artwork on the first editions is the real reason they're so highly valued. The original prints are part of the Captain America exhibit, the one at the Smithsonian. I've been..." 

Natasha half-listened, playing a mental memory game with herself in trying to recall each individual time Coulson had spoke at length about his Captain America trading cards. Three weeks ago, in Chicago, when they had passed by a shop with various trinkets of Americana. Four months before that, in Adré, when a starving refugee boy had approached them in a dated Captain America tee-shirt. Two months before that, at Coulson's birthday party-- not the company one, where she and Clint had stuck to the corners of the room until it was appropriate to sneak away; the one after, with just the senior agents who had all chipped in to buy a ridiculous Captain America themed kid's ice cream cake. Coulson had very nearly _beamed_ when he saw it. Nine months ago, when she had crouched over him to shield them from debris, hissing at him to keep talking, shaking him when his eyes closed.

Her mind's eye was a smooth river stone, and she aimed it to skip over the waters of her memory in a perfect arc, further and further until she reached the beginning: her first month at SHIELD. The first time she had met Phil Coulson-- Natasha looked over as he spoke and wondered if he'd known, then, or if he had bluffed, and whether it mattered, and whether she wanted to know.

\--

The Black Widow was ruthless, a bloodless bitch--so dictated the rumors and whispers associated with Natasha Romanov. In an interrogation, the reputation she'd carefully cultivated was a scalpel to cut through lies. It had been advantageous for fear to precede her. Now the Black Widow walked the halls of SHIELD and scattered agents in her wake. She was trapped in an organization where she was supposed to work _with_ people, but the accounts of her past deeds accompanied her like the smell of rot.

Barton tried to be friendly, since he seemed to recognize that the entire situation was _his_ fault. When he'd arrogantly told her that he'd made the call to save her life, Natasha had scoffed. It was _absurdly_ presumptive to think he could have taken her out with a few trick arrows. She'd made her skepticism known to him, and he responded as she'd known he would: with more boasts of his prowess and a challenge to spar. "If your handlers allow you the time to waste on childish competitions, Barton," she'd replied, "Clearly you aren't as necessary as you think." She would not easily surrender her resentment, no matter how many times he attempted to rectify the situation.

After they finally realized their training was redundant and loosened their hold on her, she immediately went to Fury and requested an assignment. Looking disdainfully amused as ever, he refused, arguing that she needed a partner; SHIELD had absolutely no reason to trust her alone. A partner. She knew how to manipulate people in a hostile environment to gain trust, but those connections were nothing more than manipulations-- typically followed by betrayal and death. It was clear that building relationships was essential to gaining ranks here, which put her at an extreme disadvantage. _Nothing you can't handle_ , she reminded herself, but she had to wonder whether that part of her had been fully burned out. In a moment of self-doubt, she turned to the methods she knew best.

Though there was little reason to believe SHIELD would consider her actions a true threat, she planned carefully and waited until there was an emergency that required a full team response. She kept to the shadows and targeted the women's lockers first. Her lock-picking skills were adequate enough for the simple locks and she went through each person's items with swift efficiency, making note of any personal effects-- those that told her most about each locker's owner. Pictures, notes, trinkets: these would be the basis of her mental files on each new team member. With this knowledge, she would approach them already knowing their weak spots; she could integrate herself at those points with the appropriate emotional vulnerability. 

The men's lockers were trickier, since she had no easy excuse for her presence. The alarm was still sounding, which bought her at least a dozen lockers. She had scanned nearly half the lockers when the first truly interesting possession caught her eye: a binder of Captain America trading cards. Her mind immediately spun through the possible implications: _moderate monetary value, potentially high sentimental value, could be clinging to innocence or simply immature, slightly obsessive and orderly, possible delusions of grandeur..._ But while the list compiled in the background, Natasha felt herself drawn to look more closely at the cards. They were fairly old, by the looks of them. Curious-- and thinking perhaps there was writing on the back-- she pulled one out to examine.

"Could you keep those in the sleeves?" a voice asked pleasantly behind her, raised to be heard over the siren. "There was only one run of those printed, and I'd like to preserve their condition." Already rehearsing her excuses, Natasha turned around. A middle-aged man she knew to be Senior Agent Phil Coulson sat on the bench between the lockers. His face showed nothing but mild curiosity; she realized it was the same neutral expression she currently wore. _Two mirrors, reflecting nothing_. The thought held a grim humor that amused her. Deliberately, so he could catch her movements, Natasha returned the card to the sleeve. He held his hand out, and she handed him the binder. Coulson flipped it open, examining the cards. _Excessive attachment, vulnerable to emotional compromise,_ Natasha mentally added to his file.

"You're Natasha Romanov."

"That's right," she said.

"Interesting." Coulson gave her a small smile, still sitting serenely on the bench. "Do you know much about Captain America, Ms. Romanov?"

"No, sir." She didn't have a good read on him yet, but perhaps if she deferred to his superiority he wouldn't tell Fury about catching her in what was not a very trust-inspiring situation.

"Those are vintage cards, from when Steve Rogers was still performing in theaters across the country." Sensing this lesson was only beginning, Natasha remained silent. “You see," he said, "despite the money and resources spent on the Super Soldier experiment, the military distrusted Rogers. They didn't have faith in better living through chemistry in those days." A vaguely wry expression flitted over Coulson's face as he stood, noticeable only to the quick eyes of a master interrogator. Natasha sensed an opening. He placed the binder back in his locker, shut the door, and began walking away, making it evident he expected her to follow. Keeping a respectable distance between them, she asked,

"And they have that faith now?" She kept her tone unassuming and a touch feminine. That usually worked on men in positions of authority, who assumed her natural state was one of general ignorance. Coulson stopped walking and turned to look at her. His gaze was hard. 

"Agent Romanov." It was the first time she had been called agent by anyone other than Fury (and that, she suspected, was Fury's idea of a joke). Coulson openly sized her up. "You already know the answer to that." So. He'd read her file. "SHIELD isn't like the other organizations you've worked for. There are people here worth trusting." 

Natasha didn't need to voice her doubts. They hung in the air, though neither moved or acknowledged anything. Then, so subtly that Natasha was impressed despite herself, Coulson's demeanor shifted seamlessly from patient to imposing.

"You're going to have to learn to compromise, Agent Romanov," he said. She just managed to keep her eyes from narrowing. "You need to be out, keeping busy. And SHIELD needs you to have a partner. Trust goes both ways."

"I understand," she replied, but Coulson seemed able to hear her internal intonations; his expression both stayed the same and grew more disapproving. Unwilling though she was to admit it, getting caught had been an acceptable consequence for the opportunity to meet Phil Coulson; he was the only competent agent on this ship. 

"No," he said pleasantly, "I don't think you do." She expected him to expound upon the reasons she was wrong, but something in his body language indicated the end of the conversation. He walked down the hallway, turned the corner, and was gone. Natasha stood alone in the hallway. Belatedly, she looked around to regain her bearings. The beginnings of confusion on her face, she paused a moment longer before making up her mind: she would jump through whatever inane hoops were necessary to work with Phil Coulson-- if only to find out what he meant.

\--

(From his desk, Fury watched the surveillance feed as Romanov walked away from her encounter with Coulson. A smile slowly grew on his face.

"Gotcha.")

\--

When they finally assigned her to a mission, she was still refusing a partner but had earned enough trust to be placed in a group led by Coulson. It wasn't until the team gathered to hear the brief that she was informed Barton was part of the six-man strike team. Even if she _did_ believe in coincidence, Barton's smugness gave both men away. No wonder they'd been willing to recruit the Black Widow; with poker faces like that, they _needed_ her. Once in the field, however, Barton more than justified his boasting. Respect was a highly-valued currency in their field, and Barton knew what it meant to earn it. 

After their fourth successful assignment, Coulson approached her. The range's lighting left something to be desired; under the dull bulbs, they both looked haggard. Coulson watched her shoot in silence until she was satisfied and toggled the target back to them.

“You know, if you’re looking for a partner,” Coulson said conversationally, as if he had not just watched her empty a clip of perfect shots, “Barton’s your best option.” Natasha’s training kept her from showing surprise. _Barton_? The archer earned her notice, true, but Natasha still didn't know why he’d saved her, and was beginning to suspect he had no good answer. Such chaotic thinking unbalanced her, and that was the last thing she wanted in a partner-- assuming she'd resign herself to one in the first place. She'd always viewed a partner as an inevitable emotional weakness. In the field, she'd often seen team members go down and the reason became clear enough after the first few bodies: most people were _just_ skilled enough to keep themselves alive, but the odds were turned against them once they had to begin watching out for their partner. Natasha knew trust would have to be entirely implicit for a partner to be an asset rather than a risk. She would have to _know_ they made the jump, because the half-second it took to turn around and check could-- _would_ eventually cost a life. And Natasha was good-- arguably the best-- but she relied on those hair's breadth moments as often as any other agent. A partner would steal that reaction time-- or they would slip up, and Natasha would be too busy saving her own life to save theirs. This was the conclusion she'd reached years ago, and she'd resolved never to take a partner; she didn't want to get to know the person whose blood would eventually be on her hands. Distance was the first defense of an assassin: never stay long enough to see the blood turn brown. 

Coulson studied her face as if he could actually read it. Feeling disconcerted, she busied herself with checking her Glock.

"Think about it," Coulson said, and began to walk away. He made it to the door before she took a breath and smothered her pride.

"He can hold his own," she admitted, and his hand stopped on the handle.

"More than that," Coulson pushed, still not turning to face her. When she did not respond, he gave her another moment-- then shrugged. "You're holding yourself back, Agent. It's disappointing." By the time she'd looked up, he was already gone. 

It shouldn't matter. It _didn't_. Who was Phil Coulson but another handler who thought he could pull her strings? 

But that wasn't right, because it was the same Phil Coulson who spoke about Captain America like some people talked about religion. He cared about more than the mission, she knew that as fact after working with him in the field. Maybe she'd been hasty in her judgment... 

She grabbed another clip and reloaded. 

\--

As she dragged Coulson's body behind a van and Clint made sweeps to cover them, she mentally threw up her hands. _Fine. They're my friends. I've earned myself two incredibly vulnerable liabilities. Fantastic._

"Pay attention." Her voice is harsh gravel after days of hiding in that damn cellar. “I need you to drink this.” It was the last of their vodka, and her worry intensified when Coulson actually winced. 

"It's not as bad as it looks," he said, looking up at her. It was true: the wound only had the _chance_ of becoming critical. But she wasn't going to bet the odds, not with Coulson. _Liabilities_ , she repeated with scorn. _Next I'll be holding their hands across the street._

"Don't fight me on this, Coulson. It won't work out well." 

"Really? I think it's--" Coulson groaned as she prodded his side. "It's going _great_ so far." She flashed him a grim smile and took a swig from the bottle. Sitting up straighter, he took the bottle and copied. She took the opportunity to examine his wound more closely. It occurred to her that the man was not invulnerable, an easy fact to forget about a handler-- which was, when push came to shove, how Clint and Natasha mentally classified him. Coulson was so much more, of course, with a CV that would get him a job in any official organization and unmentionable experience that secured him a position anywhere else. But to SHIELD's two best assassins, he was a handler in every way that mattered: the composed voice in their ear at the most inconvenient times, the one breaking the tension and reminding them of the goals, the one on the ground who remembered to put agents' well-being before the mission ( _because /we're/ sure as hell not going to remember_ , the voice in her head that sounded like Clint remarked).

Appreciation was an unfamiliar emotion for Natasha, requiring first an act of kindness to be appreciative of. Looking down at the middle-aged man in the suit who persisted in expecting more of her when everyone (including herself) had written her off as untrustworthy and broken, she felt... magnanimous. 

"Tell me about Steve Rogers." It wouldn't have worked if Coulson was at his best-- but then, if he was, the ploy wouldn't have been necessary. 

"What do you want to know?" he asked, never giving up more than he had to. A spark of affection flared in her gut.

“Coulson," she said sardonically, as if her hands weren't covered in his blood as she applied pressure, "I can't believe you haven't put this together by now. I don't know a thing about him. Russians aren't overly enamored with Captain America. What stories I heard were probably part of a propaganda campaign." Through the fog of pain and alcohol, Coulson's eyes sharpened. She got him. "They used to spread rumors about him abusing that kid who followed him around. Beaky?"

She’d never seen a distraction work so effectively.

\--

It was Hill who turned to the table where Clint, Coulson, and Natasha sat, heads bent over blueprints for a targeted building in their next black ops assignment.

"They found Steve Rogers," she said, looking truly gob-smacked. Three heads snapped up; one looked at Hill, while two searched out the other and exchanged a look. 

"His body?" Clint asked. Natasha looked at Coulson, not wanting to miss any reaction.

"No, _him_. He's _alive_." Coulson all but gasped. Clint sat back and whistled, shaking his head. Even Natasha's eyes widened. There was stunned silence around the table-- but with Clint Barton, silences never lasted long.

"How many strings will we have to pull to be assigned to his detail, d'you think? I _did_ save Fury's life that one time..." And then it's a flurry of activity and jokes and a strange giddy elation emanating from Phil Coulson of all people, a man who always had energy but never quite like this, never this fervored. Natasha wondered the unusual behavior was something to concern herself over, whether the situation needed her particular brand of realism. She turned to Clint questioningly. He shook his head, grinning crookedly: _it's okay, Tasha, nothing to worry about_.

"Enjoy it while you can," he added in an undertone, moving to stand next to her so they could watch the commotion together. Eye of the storm. "You know he's going to be unbearable about those cards now."

\--

Everyone left fairly quickly after the service, speaking no louder than whispers as they scattered into the labyrinth of the helicarrier. Tony looked like hell; _perhaps this will sober him_ , Natasha thought with little pity. It was easy to disappear to the bathroom and evade the rest of the team; she relied on the distraction of grief as cover and was not disappointed. It reminded her, painfully, of their first meeting; another self-imposed mission, but this time no one would be sitting on the bench between the lockers--

She cut her thoughts off viciously, walking down the hallway and easily slipping unnoticed into the locker room. Scanning the aisles to make certain she was alone, Natasha walked up to Coulson's locker. She wasted precious seconds staring at the inside, now barren of possessions. Her fists clenched at her side, nails digging into her palms as furious tears stung her eyes. A creak startled her back to herself, and she quickly pried open the back and took out the card she had stashed there after stealing it from Fury's possession. She did not require anyone else's permission; it was enough concession to admit such attachment to herself. She knew Coulson would have approved-- if not of the theft, then of the compromise. A true acknowledgement of their partnership. 

"Goodbye, Agent Coulson," she murmured thickly, and left the room. Only once she had secured herself in a bathroom stall on the women's side did she hold up the card to the light. Steve Rogers waved to her cheerily, his uniform marred by Coulson's blood. Lightly, in the way she'd seen Coulson handle them, she traced the splatter pattern. The blood staining the cardboard was brown. Natasha sat, heavily, and finally let herself cry.

\--

If Clint asked, later, she would deny everything.

\--

Taking his eyes off the dusty California highway, Coulson looked over to meet her gaze; only then did she realize she'd been staring. 

"Something on your mind, Agent?" Denial leapt to her tongue, but she paused. 

"Four years, in May." The words were curt, and none but two (perhaps three) would understand their meaning. "You and Clint--" She wouldn't let herself express those thoughts. "A lot of work to gain one agent." 

"That reminds me," Coulson said as they sped down the road, highway melting under the desert sun, "I should probably change the combination on my locker."

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Flinty" by Anya Marina, which is my go-to Natasha song. I highly recommend it. 
> 
> "Four years in May": in my head, they're talking in early 2012. Iron Man 2 took place in 2010 according to that awesome timeline floating around. I gave Natasha two years before that to work her way up the ranks in SHIELD to be trusted enough to be assigned to Tony Stark. 
> 
> I owe a lot of my Coulson feels to the uhhmazing fic [still officially lost](http://archiveofourown.org/works/385871) by pollyrepeat, especially the bit at the end when Fury explains what Coulson's talent is. That idea was at the forefront of my mind when I wrote this fic.


End file.
